


Genesis

by frootlups



Category: Kingdom Hearts
Genre: Catholic Imagery, Child Death, Gen, Second person POV, but in the way where i’m gay so it’s fun, lovecraftian horror gets forcibly befriended by a child, never used that tag before!, or i guess more someone who luxu is made from, that one either tbh, this is made for me and like 3 other people to read so just like. vibe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-29
Updated: 2020-05-29
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:41:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24431521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frootlups/pseuds/frootlups
Summary: and then it is Sunday, and you are too late.
Relationships: Luxu & Master of Masters (Kingdom Hearts)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 13





	Genesis

**Author's Note:**

> Skip the entire paragraph where it’s Sunday to avoid the child death 😳

It is Monday, maybe, and you have finished your form. Plantigrade, bipedal, two arms, a torso, and something that might be a head, all stuffed within a coat to avoid anything spilling out. It’s...not perfect, but it’s good enough for now, good enough for sitting by a fountain and watching the people watch him. 

And then there is a boy, missing two front teeth and hobbling around on one leg and makeshift crutches. And the boy is tugging on your arm, and you look at him and he is light. Not the terrifying, oppressive light at war within yourself, but soft. Gentle, even. He is a tiny spark in a sea of muddled greys, and he is pulling on the edges of your coat and asking you name. He says it’s alright if you don’t have one, because he doesn’t either, but people here call him Shoes because of his leg. He tells you that you look lonely and sad, which is impossible since you don’t have a face in this form. But something about him must be convincing, because he sits next to you and chatters about nothing until the sky turns pink and he says he needs to go home.

On Tuesday you find him on a roof, crutches tucked up under his good leg and when you ask him what he’s doing he tells you he’s looking at the shapes of clouds. He’s up there for hours, tanning brown skin even darker as he points out various shapes, calling them horses, dinosaurs, or dogs. You can’t help but wonder the purpose of the activity, but you sit on the roof nonetheless. 

On Wednesday the boy shows you the park, and he shouts “Look, that’s my favorite flower!” at anything that blooms and stuffs your pockets full of dandelions and clover and any rocks he deems special enough to be worth saving. When he’s done, he tells you to keep them. They’re a gift, because he says you’re his friend. He can’t exactly explain what a friend is when you ask. “Friends are friends,” he says solemnly, and leads you by your hand back to the clocktower.

It’s Thursday and he shows you stargazing, pointing at the ones that remind him of favorite shapes and naming one, in particular. Seven stars, all aligned in a cloud. Close enough it’s difficult to tell them apart. One of the souls within your coat reaches out at that, and you tuck it away for a moment. For a moment. 

He tells you of the local religion, that every star is a life passed on, and that the moon keeps them safe in the afterlife. A part of you aches, but he’s still wrapped up in an explanation, so you ignore it.

Friday comes at last and you find him on the beach, playing with sand crabs like he doesn’t notice the oppressive sun. he holds one out to you, and you have to act like you couldn’t expect it to pinch you. He shows you the fish that bite at his foot when he wades into the water, and laughs when you refuse to take off your boots (what would happen, you wonder, if you did?) He shows you how to reach in and hold your hand still, until one swims right between your fingers. You snatch one up, reflexes faster than you know what to do with, and show it to him. 

He frowns at you, and swats it out of your hand, carefully watching it swim away, unharmed. “Fish are sad when you take them out of the water. It’s important for them to be happy.”

Saturday he is at the clocktower again, swinging his leg off of the edge of the widow’s walk, waving you forwards. he smiles, and for a moment humanity is worth saving - worth protecting. maybe if only for one spark of light laughing as he drips the worst-tasting ice cream in the world on black leather. 

And then it is Sunday, and you are too late. you are too late because the boy is small, the boy is young, and the boy is unerringly, terrifyingly human. Because humans get infections, and humans die, and there is absolutely nothing you could’ve done. When a doctor comes she tells you he likely would’ve died whether or not you’d noticed at all. 

So you work. Another boy, this time stronger. Made from a piece of yourself deposited into a replica of the first. Able to bounce from form to form—unkillable. 

And that is, somehow, that. He is the boy, but he isn’t. He has his bright smile, his missing leg, and his tendency to stick out his tongue when he’s focusing, but none of the memories. But it’s enough, enough to briefly fill the unfamiliar void. 

It’s enough.

**Author's Note:**

> don’t worry abt it this is entirely self indulgent


End file.
